


How Draco Malfoy Committed a Felony and Became a Landscaper

by CleverLines_Unread_CleverNapkins



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Post-War, Domestic, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, F/M, Good Draco Malfoy, Human Disaster Draco Malfoy, Lucius Malfoy Being an Asshole, Not Epilogue Compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-30
Updated: 2020-09-30
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:13:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26733415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CleverLines_Unread_CleverNapkins/pseuds/CleverLines_Unread_CleverNapkins
Summary: Draco Malfoy was crouched near the front door, avoiding the pebbled pieces of what once was a mirror, crunching under his shoes. He had a particularly terrifying view of the living room and kitchen of the flat, where the majority of the damage was occurring; Draco had his back against the wall in his foyer, next to a side table that was surprisingly unscathed so far.A stack of dishes were overturned, two tossed like a frisbee into the wall.“Granger,” he hissed into his phone, “I’m not bloody joking. Get over here right now, I need backup.”---We really don't talk enough about the fact that the Malfoys have pet Peacocks
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 4
Kudos: 122





	How Draco Malfoy Committed a Felony and Became a Landscaper

**Author's Note:**

> This is just a result of me thinking too much about one line in the books about peacocks roaming the Malfoy grounds. 
> 
> I also know literally nothing about Peacocks. 
> 
> Enjoy!

_CRASH!_ The table flipped over. 

The china cabinet splintered, _CRACK!_

There went the coffee pot, shattered to shards. 

Pieces of paper fluttered down from the ceiling, ripped from the book spines where they had lived for so long. 

The couch was in tatters, ripped and torn with fluff spilling out until it looked like a mountain of snow. 

Antique candlesticks smashed holes in the wall as they were thrown across the flat. The blinds were torn down, puddles of fabric on the floor. 

A crack in the window let in a warm breeze. 

Draco Malfoy was crouched near the front door, avoiding the pebbled pieces of what once was a mirror, crunching under his shoes. He had a particularly terrifying view of the living room and kitchen of the flat, where the majority of the damage was occurring; Draco had his back against the wall in his foyer, next to a side table that was surprisingly unscathed so far. 

A stack of dishes were overturned, two tossed like a frisbee into the wall. 

“Granger,” he hissed into his phone, “I’m not bloody joking. Get over here right now, I need backup.” 

\--

As soon as the front door to the flat opened a crack Draco had seized Hermione’s wrist, pulling her in and down into his hiding spot next to him. 

Her eyes were wide, “What the bloody hell is that, Malfoy?” 

Draco was glaring, his hair mussed and jumper scattered with dust from exploding and cracking objects. “A bloody mistake, is what it was.” He turned his head from hers, poking his face around the corner of the wall and screaming into the depths of his flat, “You hear that? A _mistake_ , you bloody overgrown chicken!” 

Malfoy’s flat had been ransacked. Not a single inch of the floor was visible, and almost everything that was toppled and throws was damaged beyond repair. Dust filled the air, spinning and swirling over the mess. 

Hermione clutched her wand in her hand, her knees ready to spring out. Her eyes were scanning the flat that she could see, strategizing. “Okay,” she whispered, “where’s yours? I can grab it.” 

“Grab what?” Draco’s head was still around the corner, his voice at its normal volume. 

Crawling up into a squat, Hermione creeped forward. “Your wand, Malfoy. Please tell me you know where it fell, I don’t think I’ll have enough time to sort through any of this mess, but if I can get close enough I can use an _Accio_ without arousing the neighbors --” 

Draco had put his arm out in front of her, stopping her from creeping around him into the main room. He shot her an odd glance. “Not yet! What the bloody hell are you talking about?” 

“Your wand, Malfoy!” 

A teacup was tossed from the kitchen, a lofty throw that was cut off too soon by the accompanying saucer that crashed into it, mid-air, shattering the two into a sort of delicate confetti. 

He kept eye contact, one eyebrow raised as he reached into his pocket, pulling out his wand with a flourish. 

Looking between his face and his hand hand, she shook her head, “Are you dense? You’re being attacked, you have your wand, and you’re not going to do anything?” 

“I’m not being attacked, woman. Don’t you think I would have done something by now if I had?” He had the audacity to roll his eyes at her. 

“You said you needed backup!” She threw her hands up in the air and winced, her legs starting to cramp from her crouch. 

There was a _CRASH_ from further inside the flat, followed by the loudest, ear-piercing squawk Hermione had ever heard in her life. Her eyes squeezed shut on instinct, her hands covering her ears as she all but dropped to the floor. 

The silence that followed was dull and heavy. 

Draco grabbed her bicep, standing almost to his full height, taking her with him as he made his way to the ruined couch. The pair ducked down behind it. 

When they were covered, Hermione ripped her arm from Draco’s grasp, putting her wand under his chin. Draco sat up straight immediately, though his eyes were cool. 

“I swear to Merlin, Malfoy,” she hissed at him, “tell me what’s going on right this minute.” 

His eyes flicked from the wand under his face to Hermione’s face. He rolled his eyes again, batting the wand away with arrogance. 

He nodded above the couch. “Give it a go,” was all he said. 

Hermione glared at him. Ever so slowly, as if she were caught in a fox hole trying to scout out the enemy, she peered over the fluffed cushions. 

Feathers. All she saw were feathers. 

Green, spindly feathers filling the entire kitchen. The feathers seemed to reflect the light, catching it in hypnotic eyes of blue and gold that she almost couldn’t tear her eyes away from. Connected to the stems of the feathers was quite possibly the largest bird that Hermione had ever seen. 

Hermione sat back down heavily. She took a breath and then violently threw out a hand, pushing Malfoy so squarely in the chest that he lost his balance, flailing into a pile of what was either the remnants of a library or tatters of his closet. 

“You mad woman!” he cried out, not bothering to get up. 

“Malfoy!” she yelled, “Is that a bloody _PEACOCK?_

Still on the floor, he bemoaned the ceiling, “Oh, what a twat! She’s gone and eaten my favorite sweater. Granger, tell me that’s not cedar green you’re seeing up there too.” He pointed up to the ceiling fan, where indeed, hung on one of the blades was a the remains of a wool sweater. 

Hermione refused to look, slapping his leg, “Malfoy!” 

Draco sighed dramatically, raising himself until he was sitting criss-cross in front of her. “I went to the Manor to sign the papers that make me formally disinherited from the estate. All well and good until my father making a crack about selling off any and all belongings that I had apparently deemed --” he made air quotes, “--’too beneath myself to bring into my life of heresy and betrayal’” Draco snorted, waving off Hermione’s look of pity, “Which was all well and fine, I haven’t needed anything from there in years, _until_ Father made a crack about feasting on exotic fowl tonight in celebration.” 

Hermione gasped, taking another peek over the couch, “You mean he was going to... to --” Her stomach turned. 

“Eat Priscilla, yes,” he finished for her. “So, on my way out, I brought a stowaway.” Draco shrugged at Hermione’s look of awe. 

“But apparently,” he called out louder, presumably speaking to the bird, “I should have let her be food if this was the thanks I get!” 

Usually so sharp tongued, Hermione was at a loss for words. She watched the peacock a moment longer, taking in the enormous span of its feathers, which knocked every appliance and accessory to the floor as Priscilla moved, her head swiveling constantly, the occasional peck as she grabbed things at random and either dropping them back to the rubble or tossing them roughly to the side. 

“Okay,” Hermione said slowly, “okay, I can send a message to Hagrid, he can be here within an hour or so and he can take Priscilla --” 

“No!” Draco’s eyes were wide. “Are you mad! I’m not shipping her off like some common stock!” 

“Well, what the bloody hell are we going to do with a bloody peacock the size of your entire flat?” 

\---

“I just want it on record that this is the stupidest thing you’ve ever dragged me into,” Hermione said. She was crouching by the doorway to the kitchen, using her wand to levitate a sealed box of cereal that had been knocked off the counter, towards her. She moved it slowly as to not allow the contents to shake or make any noise, while also making sure that the box did not get knocked into again by Priscilla’s feathers or stepped on. 

Meanwhile, Draco was picking his steps cautiously across his countertops avoiding the cracked plates and cookware as we went. He laughed as he ducked to avoid a swipe of feathers. 

“I wouldn’t be too sure about that,” he said, “You’re forgetting the time in Berlin.” 

He heard more than saw her laugh, a quick, startled sound, “Fair enough. This might be a close second, then.” 

Hermione had the box of cereal in hand, using a quick cutting spell to open it without rustling the gains inside. She held it at the ready. 

Draco reached into one of the top cabinets, pulling out a small medicinal vial. He took a few more careful steps, toeing a cracked blender out of the way until he was perched on a corner of the countertop, his knees bent, ready to pounce. 

Priscilla was rustling her beak through a lower cabinet, unsettling the pots within that bounced off each other, clanking and banging as she explored. 

Draco gave the signal. 

Hermione shook the cereal box viciously, catching the peacock’s attention immediately. The bird’s head came out of the cabinet, swooping around to the sound, the metal bowl in her beak slinging out, flying across the room like a frisbee and clattering into a stack of damaged books in the other room. 

Priscilla located the source of food, running at full speed towards Hermione’s arm, where it was visible in the doorway. At the last moment before Priscilla collided with the box, Draco yelled, “Now!” Hermione tossed the cereal box towards the ceiling before quickly curling herself behind the wall again. 

Priscilla the Peacock flailed, feet skittering on the floor as she tried to stop in time to grab the box above her, but she was unable to coordinate her large body and feathers at the right time. A handful of the feathers just barely missed Hermione’s face, the delicate strands becoming a dense forest with motion. 

The box over Priscilla’s head was caught in the crosshairs of Draco’s wand, picking it up with a charm that had the box zooming across the room trailing small pieces of cereal below it. 

Draco had just enough time to grab the box out of the air, pour in the vial of liquid, and mutter a charm to keep the cereal grains crunchy before Priscilla had turned around. She sprinted forward again, making a bee-line for the cereal, which Draco gave a quick shake for good measure. Draco dropped the box on it’s head, making sure to spill out as much as possible into a pile before hopping into the air with a twist, apparating directly in front of Hermione in a crouch. 

There was a crunching sound as Priscilla ran beak-first into the countertop, cracking the stone. She took a step back with a squack, shaking her head before diving into the pile of oats Draco had left her. 

But Draco didn’t see that, didn’t flinch as his kitchen was further destroyed. He surveyed Hermione, paying attention to her arm that had been holding the box. “Are you alright?” he asked. 

Hermione let out a breath and chuckled, “I’m fine, Draco. Your bloody bird isn’t going to be the end of me.” 

He sat back on his heels, “You never know. She got me not so nicely when I tried to calm her the first time.” Draco bought up his own arm, which had a slash in his jumper running the underside of his bicep. There were traces of blood on the material, but he had mended the actual skin nicely. 

The two sat safely behind the small wall as the crunching sounds of Priscilla eating continued. 

Hermione stretched her neck, “Are you sure there was enough of the Sleeping Draught to knock her out?” 

“I put the whole bottle in. I don’t think my flat can take the extra few hours to brew a whole other cauldron just in case.” 

“She's taking an awful long time to eat.” 

“She’s a big bird!” 

She put her hands up, “I’m just saying --” 

Whatever Hermione was going to say was cut short by a snorting huff from the kitchen. Peeking their heads around the wall, they could see that Priscilla’s feathers were drooping towards her back, folding in on themselves slowly even as her chewing became more lethargic, her breathing more labored. 

Draco swooped into action, taking tempered steps towards the bird, allowing her to see him in her peripheral vision as he approached. Her head nodded, granting him access to her, almost a promise that he would not be rebuffed. 

He skimmed a hand along her back, smoothing the feathers all the way down until they were flat. He whispered soft words to her, ones of peace and sleep and dreams. His hands were as gentle as his words, his knees buckling with Priscilla’s as she lowered herself to the floor, careful not to step on Priscilla’s train of feathers behind her. Hermione watched as Draco helped maneuver Priscilla in a comfortable position and wait until the bird’s breathing evened out. 

Only then, did he walk back over to the Gryffindor. 

“You know,” she said, “some men take their girlfriends to dinner or the theatre.” 

Draco smirked at her, wrapping an arm around her waist. “Those men are tossers with no sense of adventure.” He gave her a kiss on the mouth, “And you’d be bored stiff with them.” 

Hermione giggled, knowing he was right. He kissed her nose just for good measure. 

“Alright then,” he said, “time to start Phase Two.” 

\--- 

The afternoon had been sunny and warm when they had started, or, more accurately, when Hermione had stopped paying attention. Now, almost two hours later, she was on the verge of a nap, laying on a lounge chair in Draco’s small yard. 

Draco’s idea seemed simple at first: cast an extension charm on his patio-sized yard to make it large enough for Priscilla to roam free, with gardens and a small pond. 

The trouble was, Draco lived in a Muggle neighborhood, so the charm had to be set precisely to the measurements that would be able to accommodate the space he envisioned without arousing suspicion or violating any laws, magical or otherwise. 

Which led to Draco pacing back and forth, counting how many of his feet, toe-to-heel, made up his yard, then trying to scale it up for the correct measurements. 

Then came the sketching portion. Draco sketched out different dimensions of the yard, then tried to draw out exactly how he imagined all the amenities would fit. 

Hermione learned two things from this section of the day. 

One, that Draco cannot draw: 

_Hermione pointed at the parchment, “Please tell me you’re not planning on stealing a horse from the Manor as well.”_

_“What? Of course not,” Draco said, finishing up a bunch of circles circling each other in the corner. He looked at what she was pointing at. He scoffed, “That’s not a horse --” he made a few scratches with his quill, making the tail longer, “--that’s Priscilla.”_

And two, Draco was obsessed with details: 

_“Granger,” Draco called from where he sat criss-cross in the grass._

_Hermione hummed from her lounge chair, enjoying the sun kissing her skin._

_“Do you think Priscilla would prefer Elida Ceramica or Satori River rocks?”_

_She removed the sunglasses from her eyes, squinting over at Draco, who was holding up a stone in each hand._

_“What?”_

_Draco held his hands up even higher, making sure she could see properly, “Elida Ceramica or Satori River? Rocks for the garden.”_

_Hermione looked between his hands and his face, looking at her so earnestly that it made her heart constrict. “Love,” she said sweetly, “those two rocks look exactly the same.”_

_Almost immediately, Draco’s face scrunched. “Are we even looking at the same things? Honestly, Granger, sometimes you worry me.”_

_Hermione laughed, but he was dead serious, “They’re not even close; one is perfectly circular, the others are more earthy. It gives the garden extremely different context. It’s like you’ve never even been to botanical gardens before.”_

_“I’m sure Priscilla will love whichever one you pick,” she relented, watching as Draco spoke almost to the rocks instead of her._

Regardless, Hermione stayed through all his rants and odd decisions on rocks and what properties different fish would give to a pond and researched with him which flowers would attract butterflies for the garden for Priscilla to chase and frolic with. 

But as the day rolled on and Draco planned without actually casting a thing, Hermione got impatient. After skimming through almost Draco’s whole library and after the sun had set, leaving her skin a little too pink for her liking, she reached her breaking point. 

Marching over to where Draco was still seated in the grass, around and through the mad sea of parchment with various designs and notes, she stood, above him, hands on her hips. 

“Come on, time to go inside,” she said. 

He looked up at her, “What are you talking about? We’ve still got to decide where the waterfall is going to go.” 

She held a hand out, helping Draco to his feet. With a whisk of his wand, all of the parchments and papers were moved into one very large and overflowing file folder. 

Hermione started walking back towards the flat, pulling Draco along with her. “It’s going to take hours to get everything the way you want it, maybe days --” 

“That’s only because --” he started, a petulant tone in his voice. 

“Priscilla is very particular,” she parroted back at him, throwing him a smile and a wink, “I know. But she’s also going to wake up in less than an hour, which is no where near enough time to get this place ready for her.” 

They had reached the flat. Priscilla was still sleeping soundly in the kitchen, her head tucked into her wing. 

Draco ran a hand down Priscilla’s back, savoring the softness of her fur and feathers. “Well, it’s not like I have much of a choice,” he said. “Priscilla obviously doesn’t like being indoors.” 

Looking around the flat, that much was clear to Hermione, who was currently stepping on part of a broken vase. Treading carefully. 

“She doesn’t...” she started, “eat... other animals, right?” 

By the way Draco looked at her, she was tempted to check if she had grown another head. 

“No,” she said, “got it.” Hermione righted an upturned stool and sat. 

Draco squinted at her, his hand falling from the peacock’s feathers. “I need some tea.” He tiptoed gracefully across the kitchen to the kettle. He had taken to making tea the Muggle way, a side effect of being around Hermione as much as he had been the past year or so. 

At first it was a way of teasing her almost, calling it an extension of the Muggle Studies classes he was never allowed to take in school, but Hermione sees the reality of the ritual. Even though it takes longer, it calms him. Making something with his hands rather than making it appear, knowing the labor of your work, no matter the task, satisfied him. 

That’s what Draco was doing now. Taking a moment to think, to calm himself from the craze that had been running through his head that day. He was tired. His eyes hurt. He had scratches all over his arms from before he had taken cover and let Priscilla trash his flat. He needed a nap. 

He was picking up a spoonful of sugar when he heard Hermione’s voice float slowly, hesitantly through the air, across the kitchen, over his back and shoulders to his ears. 

“I have a courtyard.” 

Draco’s shoulders stiffened. He dropped far too much sugar into his cup without realizing. 

He took a breath. “A courtyard?” was all he said. He stirred the sugar leaf water slowly. 

Hermione’s voice was still hesitant, tripping over some of the words as she tried to organize them as they spilled out. “The courtyard that’s in the middle of my apartment complex, you know. It’s half the reason I bought it, for Crookshanks to have some space when I’m away.” 

Draco’s spoon clinked on the sides of the cup. 

She continued, “The tenants are all encouraged to let their pets wander or graze. And it’s more than big enough to slowly --” she emphasized the word, stressing it, as Draco huffed a laughed, “-- slowly, create all the gardens and waterfalls and just about everything else in that ridiculous folder.” 

Draco turned to her. He leaned back against the counter, only a few feet away from where Hermione was sitting, a blush lighting up her face, but her eyes were serious. 

“As if no one would notice the sudden appearance of pasture grass and butterfly gardens popping up seemingly overnight?” He asked, an eyebrow raised. Draco went to take a sip of his destroyed tea, but stopped it short, just under his nose. The sugar was palpable to his sense of smell. He wrinkled his nose. 

Hermione drew herself up tall on the stool and pushed her shoulders back. “If they do, they can take it up with me.” 

He smirked at her, “The mighty Gryffindor Golden Girl.” She chuckled. 

The moment stretched on in silence. Draco waited, watching Hermione bite her lip. 

Draco took a sip of his tea for something to do with his hands. He kept his eyes on hers, almost gagging as the sugar water touched his tongue but forcefully cleared his face of any and all discomfort. 

“So,” he said slowly, his voice lower than its usual volume. The air was stilling around him, thickening, “your plan is to kidnap Priscilla, whom I very literally risked life and limb to kidnap first.” 

He watched as Hermione took a long breath. Her eyes closed for the briefest of moments. She forcefully stopped her hands from fidgeting. “Not so much.” Draco waited. “It wouldn’t be kidnapping, if you were there. Living there.” 

The tea was forgotten on the counter behind him. Hermione spun to the side on the stool as Draco stalked towards her. His feet were light, soundless. A smirk graced his lips. 

“Granger,” he spoke, less than a foot from her and coming. His voice was rough. “are you asking me to move in with you?” 

Hermione’s face was tinged pink. Her eyes were bright and steady. “I might be.” Draco came closer, his hands on her waist. “For the sake of Priscilla, of course.” 

“Of course.” His breath ghosted across her face as their lips met. 

\---

The cold breeze drifted in from the screen door of the flat, lifting the few strands of hair that had fallen from Hermione’s ponytail. 

The flat was crowded, cardboard boxes littering the floor, looking haphazard if one was not privy to the organizational system that had been set up. In her hands was a stack of books, the soft leather cover smooth from decades and decades of use, older than she herself was. With much care she placed them on the bookcase next to the fireplace. 

A laugh perked her ears up. It was a booming laugh, but refined. Carefree and light. She smiled. 

Just outside of their small porch, through the screen door, was Draco Malfoy, dressed in a soft knit sweater and jeans, sitting cross-legged on the grass of the courtyard. Behind him was the largest bird that anyone in the building had seen before, feathers fanned out behind it, a dazzling array of blue and green with hints of purple and red. 

The peacock’s head was dipped into the crook of Draco’s neck, nuzzling him contentedly while they enjoyed the brisk air and abundant sunlight. A bright orange cat circled them, inspecting, before laying itself down in front of the pair. 

Hermione walked to the porch, drawn by the sounds and sight of some of her favorite things. 

Draco spotted her. A bright, loose smile greeted Hermione. A wave, beckoning her over. 

“Granger!” he called. “Love, come here, I can’t figure this contraption out!” 

Even after all this time, the endearment still made her blush. She walked over to where the group sat, squinting at the sunlight. The “contraption” he was referring to was a camera stood up on a tripod, a small wire connecting the camera to manual trigger to take the picture. 

As Hermione met them, she sat on the grass with them. She took the trigger from the blonde with a soft, “Let me.” He handed it over willingly, his hand free to wrap around her waist, pulling her closer, flush against his side. 

She laughed, her thumb pressing the button. A flash went off. With a soft touch, Draco’s other hand went to her chin, lifting her face to meet his. He looked at her with our adoration. 

The flash snapped again. 

“You know,” he said, giving her a sweet kiss, “I bought Priscilla a new collar. I think it will stop all the confusion and calls from other tenants. Take a look, tell me what you think.” 

Hermione rolled her eyes. Priscilla’s collar had always had a small tag on it, ever since they had first moved in together the month before. The appearance of a giant peacock had sent the neighbors into a tizzy, even more so when they saw the name “Malfoy” elegantly carved into the metal alongside the apartment’s number. 

She took the tag in her hands. The started trembling as she read the tag this time: “Granger-Malfoy” in the same elegant script. 

“Draco, what --” she started, then stopped as her breath left her in a gasp. 

Draco had turned in the grass, his whole body facing her. His eyes were still bright, excited, but nervous. In his hand he held a small velvet box. 

“I don’t think I can stop calling you “Granger” anytime soon. I’m quite fond of it.” He spoke so softly the wind almost carried away his words. “But I’d also quite like to be your husband. If you’ll have me.” 

The camera flashed as Hermione threw her arms around his neck, breathless “yes’s” heard between their kisses and elated laughter. 

That was the photo they sent out to their friends: that moment of incredible happiness, trading kisses and smiles, flanked by Cookshanks’ gaudy orange fur and Priscilla’s voluminous feathers, surrounded by freshly cut grass, blooming flowers, a pond peeking out behind them, a waterfall bubbling softly into it. 

And underneath their small little, cut together family, was a single sentence, written in the same elegant script as Priscilla’s collar, the same that had inscriptions in the first page of almost all of their books, the same that was found on sticky notes on the fridge and the side of the cardboard boxes filing their apartment. 

_Save the Date._

xxx


End file.
